


Pure Indulgence

by MrsNoggin



Series: Crowley has a Thing for... [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Worship, Crowley is a hungry hungry boy, Deepthroating, Face-Fucking, Filth with Feels, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plush Angel, Smut, thigh kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 19:18:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19818829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/pseuds/MrsNoggin
Summary: They’re his favourite thing to hold. Absolute favourite. The hard flesh beneath his hand is pure indulgence.Crowley still has a bit of a thing for Aziraphale's Thicc Thighs.





	Pure Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrevocably_Sherlocked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrevocably_Sherlocked/gifts).



> Yeah, so apparently this is becoming a series. Yay! 
> 
> Written for Snoggy, who deserves everything she ever asks for. HAPPY BIRTHDAY SNOGS, my friend. I hope you enjoy.

They’re his favourite thing to hold. Absolute favourite. Generous handful of powerful shoulder, delightful. Fingers buried in hair, oh yes please. Hands, beautiful affection, long craved. Hand on thigh… transcendent. The hard flesh beneath his hand is pure indulgence. 

Aziraphale does not understand. He quite openly says so. He feels self-conscious, he looks away when Crowley removes his numerous layers of clothes. When Crowley buries his face in those beloved limbs, just made for love and lust, there is unease in Aziraphale and he voices it. 

Crowley is not having that. He’s glad Aziraphale feels he can say it, but he hates that he feels it in the first place. They’ve only been doing this for a week or so. It’s taken them millennia. And he will not have it bolloxed up by a lack of communication about how magnificent Crowley finds that body. 

***

He’s taken his angel to a concert. Symphony orchestras are not really his thing, but Aziraphale sits like a statue, eyes closed, letting the music swell his chest and feed his soul. So Crowley will sit beside him, for hours if need be, and let him drink his fill. He will also, however, rest his elbow carefully over the cushioned arm between their chairs, and place his hand, palm down and hungry, on Aziraphale’s plush, relaxed leg. 

Later, they go for a meal. Crowley lets only coffee and alcohol pass his lips, but he makes sure Aziraphale eats until he is sated - Beef Wellington with celeriac and truffle potatoes, apricot souffle, tiny morsels of bitter chocolate and salted caramels. He keeps the angel’s glass topped up with a 2008 Bollinger and just watches. 

“You are quite spoiling me today.”

“Finally caught on, have you?” Crowley rocks back dangerously in his chair and smirks at the slightly panicked look he gets from their waiter. He’s obviously clocked on to quite how much vintage champagne they’ve put away and has his eye quite closely on them. 

“It’s only taken me a few thousand years,” Aziraphale concedes, raising his glass as if in a toast. 

Crowley wishes he wasn’t uncomfortable with the depths of his devotion being discussed quite so openly, but, alas, he is. Luckily, a man on the table closest to them manages to upend an almost full bottle of red wine all over the white tablecloth at precisely that moment, and that calamity is swiftly followed by the waiter (who had quite clearly been watching the wrong table) slipping over in the puddle and conking his head quite thoroughly on the corner of a chair. 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. 

“Wasn’t me!” Crowley protests. 

It was. 

***

Crowley has his own issues with his body. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, see the way he swaggers and slides and _smears_ himself over things. His major points of discomfort are his more demonic traits: the eyes, the tongue, the teeth, the way he hisses when he’s _feeling things_ , the random fires that spring up when he’s truly incensed with anger. But he can put those to one side when he’s undressing his lover, his angel. He shoves down trousers and feelings as one, bites back the forked tip of his tongue while he rubs his face into Aziraphale’s belly. 

“You’re an odd creature,” Aziraphale says affectionately. 

“That I am.” Crowley mumbles into hair and skin. 

“And I adore every inch of you.”

Crowley looks at him then, beyond surprised. It’s only what he’s said before, he knows, but still...

“Now, I do believe you once said something about my thighs?”

Crowley has yet to stop being surprised. He also has yet to not like this kind of surprise. He shifts back to look down at the specified section of body and finds himself overcome once more at the sight. They are perfect. Thick bone, solid muscle, a generous layer of flesh over the top, dusted in pale golden hair that tickles the palms of his hands like the feeling of pins and needles as he strokes up and down. Absolutely gorgeous. 

“ _Fuck_ , your thighs.” Crowley breathes. He believes something like that was suggested last time as well. “Get them around me right now.”

He shuffles himself down to lie between Aziraphale’s legs, encourages him to wrap them around his body. He kisses at the curve of his abdomen, where it dips down into his pelvis. He runs the tip of his nose down the crease between groin and hip and grins at the feel of Aziraphale’s fingers sinking into his hair. Crowley is starting to sweat, partly desire, partly the heat between their bodies. 

He opens his mouth and sinks it slowly down onto Aziraphale’s keen erection. The head is cushiony on his tongue, salty and bitter. His saliva glands kick into action with a twinge of discomfort, just how he likes it. He sucks as he dips lower, taking more into his mouth, letting it stretch his lips and fill the top of his throat. His Angel is dissolving into his pleasure, the only sounds to come out of his mouth no longer make any sense. He has his hands in Crowley’s hair, fingers tightly wrapped and tugging while he tries not to move. Crowley shifts back further, squeezing his ribcage through the gap around him, resting the back of Aziraphale’s thighs on his shoulders. He changes the angle as he goes, so the head of Aziraphale’s cock bumps against his soft palate, and flickers his sneaky tongue just underneath it. 

Crowley is perfectly able to suppress his gag reflex, to practically unhinge his jaw and take down pretty much anything, but he wants to _feel_ it. He pushes down further, feels his eyes roll back in his head as he squirms, gagging and drooling. He waves away Aziraphale’s concern, lets him see he loves it, groans wetly, practically gargling his own spit. 

“I think… oh, my dear, hang on…”

Crowley pulls off with a filthy smack of his lips, and wipes his wet face on the convenient inside of a leg. 

“I’m going to come if you keep on with that.” Aziraphale warns, petting at his hair. 

“Yes, please, in my mouth, down my throat, fill me up...” Crowley’s mouth is speaking without his permission, but Aziraphale doesn’t seem to mind. His eyes widen and his eyebrows twitch upwards a little, but then he smiles, a sly curl of lips. Crowley gives his mouth retrospective permission and lets it continue, if it can make him pull _that_ face. “Actually, would you mind fucking my face?”

He doesn’t wait for the answer, just opens his mouth. Aziraphale, however, latches onto the idea beautifully, grabbing a hold of his hair again in one hand. Crowley whimpers in absolute delight at the pull as his head is yanked forwards and the angel feeds his cock slowly into his mouth, both of them savouring the slide. Oh, yes. 

It will be difficult to encourage him to actually do it hard, Crowley knows, his angel will not want to hurt him. Well, not any more than the tickles of pleasure pain he’s given so far, so he jams himself down roughly, and revels in the catch and squelch of his own throat, the sting of tears in his eyes. 

Aziraphale’s grunt is possibly the lowest, sexiest sound that Crowley has ever heard him make. He feels his own dick twitch in response, so he grinds down into the mattress and lets the sweet ache of almost satisfaction bloom in his balls. He looks up to make eye contact through his lashes, and finds Aziraphale already watching him. Crowley widens his eyes, pleading for more, and receives it, of course he does. The angel bares his teeth in a magnificent show of power and bucks his hips up to sink his cock up into Crowley’s throat. Fuck. And then he does it again, and again, his lustful groans increasing in pitch and volume until Crowley is clawing into the sheets and fighting for breath and it’s so stunningly brilliant that he is going to come all over himself any moment now. Then Aziraphale tightens the hold of his legs around Crowley’s ears, deadens sound enough that the demon finds himself in a whole new world, crushes tight enough that he can feel the stress in his skull. Crowley has to raise his own hips then, lift his cock from the bed to starve it of contact, because he has _things_ he wants to do, and coming now is not actually really one of them.

When Aziraphale reaches the peak of his climax, he appears to lose control over his body. His fingers pull too hard at Crowley’s hair and his heels dig into the mattress, arching his back and the noise he makes is verging on a howl. Crowley doesn’t even need to swallow; come just shoots straight down his throat, warm and slick. Superb.

He pulls off as quickly as he can without spoiling the experience for Aziraphale, and clambers onto his angel’s overly-relaxed legs. He straddles eagerly, shoving them together with little regard for permission or manners, and rubs his erection over the plump warm skin. The angel huffs out an exhausted laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead, but quite content. Crowley stares down at his own cock, rubbing against the solidity of Aziraphale’s thighs. He presses down on it with his palm, and _fucks_. He gives sinuous circles of his hips, rhythmic thrusts, long luxurious slides. He digs the fingernails of his free hand into the flesh of the other neglected thigh, clutching at muscle and skin and raw beauty. 

“You are positively _wicked_ ,” Aziraphale whispers, and watches the effect his words have on the demon, grinning at the new desperation in his movements. “So dirty, absolutely filthy. Downright _sinful_.”

Crowley comes, growling and writhing, transfixed as his come splurges out to paint those stunning thighs, little puddles left behind as he dribbles his last drops. He’s determined not to collapse into him and spoil the image, so he tries to tip sideways. Aziraphale reaches up and guides him down, lying him beside him and kissing his sweaty face gently. 

“That…” Crowley waves a hand at the mess he has made, “Is Art. Can I take a photo?” He does _not_ want to lose that image. He opens his eyes to see Aziraphale clearly communicating a firm NO with only his eyebrows. Nevermind; he’s sure he won’t forget. Crowley just kisses him instead. Sneaks a hand down to smear his fingers through the cooling come on Aziraphale’s skin and rubs it in a little. Just because. 

“So let’s talk about this name-calling.” Aziraphale says into Crowley’s mouth, as their kisses become slow and lazy.

“Hmmm?” He’d rather sleep than talk, but he’s trying to find the effort. 

“You like being told how _wicked_ you are.”

Crowley dwells for a moment on the coiling heat in his belly at the sound of those words coming from his angel’s lips. “Oh, I suppose I do.”

“Good to know,” Aziraphale says simply, full of promise. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Come join me for further discourse on Twitter [( @katnoggin).](https://twitter.com/KatNoggin)
> 
> You can enable my caffeine addiction on that site we don't discuss here. It fuels my writerly soul and makes my heart sing.
> 
> But comments and kudos are what makes my world go round. Please and thank you.


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